Pity
by MAKEMESOMETEA
Summary: "What makes you think you deserve any pity? After all you've done to me?" After the American revolution, France finds England still out on the battlefield.


France was never quite sure why he went out on that battlefield. He hadn't been involved in the fight anyway, he'd simply lurked in the background.

But maybe it was the site of England still on his knees in the mud.

England was utterly alone, his coat, as red as the brightest rose rendered him visible for miles around. Something France thanked God for, as in this driving rain, he'd have never spotted the shorter male without it.

Maybe he went to mock the man whom had been his enemy for so many years, maybe he went to comfort him. He'd never truly know.

Either way, he found himself trudging through the mud, getting his usually immaculate uniform filthy. The lashing rain seemed too chill him too the bone, and we wondered how the blonde haired country could have been out here for so many hours.

He stopped, looking over the forlorn figure with mixed feelings. It was highly amusing for him to see England, finally on his knees before him, but then again, he also felt terrible for helping inflict this pain upon the man. After al the two held a kind of mutual respect for each other and underneath everything, they were, friends.

"I've waited a long time too see you on your knees before me." France waited for what felt like an age for a response. But he heard nothing, but the sound of the rain drumming against the ground. He looked down at the slightly younger nation, and suddenly a wave of emotion, he wasn't sure what, swep through him.

He was beyond pitiful, kneeling there, his calves covered in mud, the ends of his beautifully red coat stained forever by the American soil. His shoulders slumped, his hand rested on the earth less than an inch away from his partially buried gun. His head was lowered, his soaked hair, plastered too his face, his emerald eyes dull and downcast.

And he had very obviously been sobbing his eyes out.

A wave of pity and remorse swept through France as he looked down upon his fallen enemy. He was tempted for a split second to bend down and wipe away the tears streaming down the Englishman's face, but he shook himself. What was he thinking?

"America deserved his independence, after all y-"

"How could you do this too me?" England cut across him, finally speaking. His voice started off upset but quite, gradually raising the volume and letting more and more anger seep into his voice.

"How could you France? How could you help him? You BASTARD!"

France turned away, letting an uneasy silence settle between them. England's voice echoed in the silence. France could easily detect the small tremble that gave away the British man's grief.

Suddenly a wave of anger filled the French man, and he retorted equally angrily.

"What makes you think you deserve any pity? After all you've done to me? Canada, Jeanne? No England, don't expect me to take pity on you, or even care. You've done far worse to me. Consider this payback."

The silence settled between them once again, and France distinctly heard a small, badly concealed chocked sob from England and melted on the inside.

He'd been to harsh. Over time, he'd forgiven England, and his nemesis had never attacked him when he'd been at his most defenceless.

He heard the man behind him utterly loose all composure and make an odd moaning sound, before he heard a splash.

Looking back, he saw England, flat on his face in the mud.

France was there in a second. Pulling the distraught man against him and pulling him up, lugging the Britt to his feet. England couldn't stand. He was shaking too much, so France had no choice but to carry him. And he was heavy.

By the time they'd got to the small house where France was staying, England was completely devoid of emotion. When France had handed him some food and a hot drink, he simply stared at it, as if unsure what to do with the objects. France was left with no choice but too assist him. He also had to help the man into the change of clothes he had given him. Usually the Frenchman would have taken advantage of this, but know was not the time.

Although he did have to admit, once you got passed the snot, he was quite adorable in that shirt.

It was actually quite nice, looking after him. But no matter what France did, he wouldn't stop crying. This only made France feel worse, and so, he ended up in the same bed as the Briton, trying to sooth his tears.

When France awoke the next day, the only trace of the English man ever being there, was the shirt, neatly folded on the table.


End file.
